Page 13 of The Detour

Those words urge me to do just that as I try to yank my wrists from his grip. “Why? Why not, huh?”

“Because this town, this place, it’s not what’s best for you. You don’t belong here anymore. We don’t want you here anymore.”

I hiccup over a sob as his words tear through me and break my heart all over again. “Luke. Please.” The first tear slips down my cheek, and I hate myself for it. “Why can’t we at least be friends? Why can’t—”

“Because, as you said, old habits die hard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There is a moment where I feel like the world fades away. Where it feels like the Ferris wheel stops turning, the crowd stops making noise, and my lungs stop breathing.

Luke releases my wrists and slides a hand to my throat, where he places it just short of its hollow, his thumb brushing back and forth over my collarbone. His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes as a whole host of confusing emotions rage within their blue depths.

“Christ,” he mutters, seconds before his lips crash against mine.

Moments before everything that’s been wrong with my world suddenly rights itself.

From the taste of his kiss. The feel of his lips. The swell of my heart.

The feeling like I’m home.

I jolt when someone blows a noisemaker across the room from me seconds before everyone joins in singing “Happy Birthday” to Ed. Whoever Ed is.

That’s my cue for a break.

6

Harley

I shake my head as I leave the bathroom. It shouldn’t surprise me that it’s all decked out in Christmas décor as well.

It’s par for the course in this weirdly fascinating town.

I take my time heading back to my table that Vix said she’d watch for me and check out the black and white pictures lining the walls. And I was right. They’re all pictures of Saint Nick’s Hollow during various decades.

Despite the growth that’s documented from one picture to the next, one thing is still the same: the town’s obsession with Christmas and the holidays.

It’s kind of cool.

I shake my head and chuckle. There is something definitely wrong with me if that thought is crossing my mind.

With a quick glance behind the bar as I make my way back to my seat, I’m more than disappointed when Saint’s nowhere in sight.

I tell myself my disappointment stems from the fact that he—the flirting with him—is what helped to get my creativity going, but I know the truth.

Saint makes me feel good. He looks at me in a way my ex never did. Like I’m beautiful and desired, and there is no shame in wanting to be looked at like that again.

When I reach my table, I’m surprised to see Saint leaned back in my booth, arms crossed over his chest, and one eyebrow lifted as he studies me.

I stand there for a beat until I notice that my laptop is open with my screen lit up as if someone—meaning Saint—was just looking at what I was writing. Without asking, I snap the lid of it closed and question myself over whether I left it open or if he opened it and snooped.

Either way, I round on him and his blasé expression, annoyed as hell, wondering how much of an ass I’ll look like when I accuse him and he says he didn’t.

“You left it open,” he says, answering my question for him, but I don’t know if I believe him.

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to help yourself to its content.”

He twists his lips and continues to stare at me with those inquisitive eyes. “Why are you embarrassed about what you write?”